“’Tis no index to my character, then, sir, I can assure you.”
“You needn’t, egad! There’s a shrewd measure of reserve in these matters. Show me a face that’s an index and I’ll show you an ass. But I’d like to learn, as a mere question of curiasity, why you persist in dressing like a cit, eating at beef ordinaries, and sleeping at some demned low tavern over against the Cock and Pye ditch?”
“Sure, sir, in this connection at least, you’ll grant me the authority of fashion?”
“Fashion! Paris fashion! Franklin fashion! But it’s not for the heir to an English viscountcy to model himself on a Yankee tallow-chandler.”
“I model myself on the principles of independence, sir.”
“Principles, quotha! Why, ’od rat me, Ned, you make me sick. Principles of independence are like other principals, I presume—clamorous for high rates of interest.”
“I think not, indeed.”
“Do you, indeed? But you’re a convert to the new religion, and rabid, of course; and a mighty pretty set of priests you’ve got to expound you your gospels.”
“Who, for an instance?”
The uncle leered round viciously. When he was moved to raise his voice, old age piped in him like winter in an empty house.